


Can Ever Dissever

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley inspires romantic poetry, Dialogue Heavy, Good Omens Celebration 2020, Inspired by Poetry, Literature, M/M, Or whatever the poem equivalent of a songfic is, Pining, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), The author read WAY too much into one poem, at least in the flashbacks, poemfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Aziraphale isn’t the only one who befriended a writer. There’s a certain author that Crowley knew, too; he may have influenced a poem or two, as well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Can Ever Dissever

**Author's Note:**

> I jump between two time frames in this one, and there's a LOT of long talking. This may not be to everyone's tastes, but this poem has had a hold on me for a long time, and I felt that it could have worked very well with our beloved pine tree in sunglasses.
> 
> Title is from Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee"; the poem in its entirety appears in this story.
> 
> Prompt: poetry.

“You have never mentioned this before, dear boy; you’ve befriended other artists? Who were they? Were any of them writers?” Aziraphale asked eagerly. “Oh, come on, angel, it’s nothing like how _you_ hung out with them,” Crowley drawled, while pouring out a healthy amount of whiskey. He wasn’t quite sure how they had gotten to this topic of conversation, but judging from the angel’s tone of voice, they would not be leaving this topic anytime soon.

“And what does _that_ mean? I spent time with them to learn more of their ways and their arts, to bestow on them blessings from Heaven that they may continue to share the Almighty’s gifts of talent here on earth,” Aziraphale said rather testily. “Yep, and I chatted them up to make sure they were spreading death and dissent and debauchery,” Crowley smirked slightly, before taking a long swig from his glass. “And, oh yes, also that greatest of sins that led so many of them to create their art: _questioning._ ”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “So, philosophers, then? I think I remember you speaking with Nietzsche before. Perhaps Kant, too?” The angel asked. Crowley shook his head almost fondly; Aziraphale could really be quite stubborn when he wanted an answer. “Eh, I did talk with Nietzsche once, yeah; Kant, not so much. But I also had several chats with Edgar Allan Poe,” he replied, waiting for Aziraphale’s reaction.

He was not left waiting long, for the angel actually clapped his hands over his mouth in shock. “ _Edgar Allan Poe?_ The one who wrote dark stories and poems at the start of the 19th century? Dark, I understand with you, Crowley, but poetry? And really, such talk about the man himself – “ Aziraphale wrinkled his nose slightly. “Yes, yes, I know, a bit of a character, and well, _American,”_ Crowley said, trying – and failing – to hold back a small laugh at Aziraphale’s expression. “Still, he was an interesting man; just as interesting as your Oscar, if not more.”

“He wasn’t _my_ Oscar,” Aziraphale muttered, his cheeks turning red. Crowley raised an eyebrow but decided not to comment on it. “Anyway, yeah, had several good chats with the bloke, in between my naps and all; wasn’t quite the tippler as others would have you believe, but he could appreciate a good drink,” Crowley continued.

_Another time, another conversation, but still with a drink._

_“It is good to see you again, Master Crowley; it has been a long time since I had the pleasure of speaking with you,” Edgar said, standing aside to let the red-haired man into the little room. “There is not much I have here, but I can always spare time for you, my gracious benefactor.”_

_Crowley tilted his head in greeting. “You looked like your spirits needed raising, and while I am hardly skilled in that, I do have… spirits,” he replied mischievously, while placing a bottle of wine on the dingy wooden table._

_Edgar’s eyes lit up. “And a good French wine it is, too! This is a great gift, one that warms the heart and bones, for these past weeks I have struggled so, that I may as well have been in Hell,” the writer said, sitting down across from Crowley._

_“I doubt it, as I just got back from there,” Crowley said, a light trace of humor in his voice. “Tell me more, then; I could use more material,” Edgar chuckled as he poured them both a generous helping of wine._

“Now that you have mentioned it, I don’t think I should be surprised that he is in your favor. He certainly had a… darker way of expressing the psychological, didn’t he? And he made frequent mentions of both Heaven and Hell in his literary writings; that must’ve been your doing,” Aziraphale mused, while puttering through his bookshelves in search of a book.

Crowley leaned back on the sofa, nursing his glass. “Nah, I think he just had a lot on his mind; I didn’t put those ideas there. Not all of them, anyway.”

_The bottle was half empty now, and the two men spoke more candidly._

_Crowley carefully stacked the latest sheets of paper that the writer had passed across from him to read. “Edgar, I remain an admirer of your work – the fact that you keep your stories_ short _is a chief reason why – but another murder mystery? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to challenge criminals to find more creative ways for their craft,” Crowley said, earning a surprised noise from the dark-haired man._

 _“Ah! Another alliteration from you, my friend! Hah, I think not; they do that all by themselves, more horrendous and vicious than the last, that hellish can hardly be apt enough to describe them,” Edgar replied. His expression then shifted from mild to mischievous. “Besides,_ your _stories provide far more strangeness; I ought to list you as co-author sometime! And yet… I believe that you would prefer another whodunit to my other themes, wouldn’t you? You told me during our last meeting that you were losing count of my stories involving beautiful women and romance.”_

_Crowley rolled his eyes; it was an almost unseen movement behind his dark glasses, but Edgar recognized the motion, and pressed further._

_“Why the distaste? Master Crowley, surely you have a lover? A man such as yourself must have tempted many a lovely lady, and one of them ought to be so lucky as to have won your favor,” Edgar commented, while taking another sip of wine. Crowley silently refilled his own glass before sitting back to look at the other man._

_“I tempted others, that is true,” Crowley answered, slowly. “But there was only one who captured my heart, and I do not know if I can truly refer to this person as my lover – “ he trailed off, opting to take a swig from his glass instead. Edgar sat up straighter, and Crowley saw his hand drift to his jacket pocket, where Crowley knew the man always kept a writing tablet and pen._

_“Edgar, you must have far more interesting things to write about than the lovelornities of a shadowy stranger,” Crowley said, chuckling. A small smile crossed Edgar’s face, and for a moment the gaunt lines of his face softened into something both gentle and lonely._

_“On the contrary; searching through such darkness can yield even greater understanding of the heart, and in doing so, you will become a stranger to me no longer,” the writer said, while turning to a blank page on his writing tablet. “So speak to me of the one you long for, Master Crowley; perhaps this poor poet’s imagination can craft a sonnet that would move her in all swiftness to your side.”_

_(Crowley would reflect on this, more than a century later, and laugh at the irony of it all. If anything,_ he _was the one moving far too swiftly. Always, always too fast, but always to his angel’s side.)_

_Crowley sighed, but leaned over to fill both their glasses with more wine. He decided not to correct Edgar; they were both feeling sentimental in their wine tonight, perhaps. “What do you wish to know?”_

_“Whatever you wish to tell me. Whatever you wish of her to know.”_

****

**_It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you know  
By the name of Annabel Lee;  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
Than to love and be loved by me._ **

Crowley looked up at the sudden sound of Aziraphale quickly striding back to his armchair. “I found it! I do have a collection of his works, after all; first edition, too,” he said with a note of pride. Crowley nodded, because _of course_ the angel did.

“I don’t keep a large amount of American authors here, but I suppose I made an exception for this one, since he was quite a thinker,” Aziraphale continued, carefully opening the book while reaching for his reading glasses. Crowley had to stifle a snort at the ridiculous thing that the angel now balanced on his nose. “Angel, you and I both know you don’t need that to read,” Crowley said.

“So what was he like?” Aziraphale asked, smoothly ignoring Crowley’s comment. Crowley made a non-committal noise. “Asked a lot of questions, which I liked a lot. Wrote down all of my answers, which I didn’t like as much.”

_“We met… on a wall, with all creation before us,” Crowley began haltingly. “We were not supposed to talk, as we were on opposite sides, so to speak. His – I mean, her –“ He caught himself quickly, remembering the conservative sensibilities of his oddly quiet companion. “Her kinsmen had cast me out, before we had met, and I held no favor with her set. She herself made it clear to me, many times, that we had nothing whatsoever in common.”_

_“And you loved her still?” Edgar murmured. Thin scrawling lines of words began to bloom from his pen as Crowley talked. “Yes, I did; as fervently as you love your little wife, if not more,” Crowley replied, not mincing words; Edgar winced slightly, but did not speak. “And for years, I believed she loved me in return; she made ways for us to meet, to correspond behind the backs of her kinsmen,” Crowley continued._

_(What was there to lose? The angel would never know; indeed,_ no one _would ever know that his words now were but fantasies that he had borne for centuries. Let the writer make poetry out of his foolishness.)_

****

**_I was a child and she was a child,  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
But we loved with a love that was more than love –  
I and my Annabel Lee –  
With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven  
Coveted her and me._ **

“Maybe those answers you gave him led to those dark imaginings he had,” Aziraphale said, sounding almost anxious. “Do you think you could have inspired him to write ‘The Cask of Amontillado’? Plenty of drinking, murder, and railing against God in that one.”

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t know if I ever actually led him to write anything specific. I think I may have pushed him into writing ‘The Raven’, but even that’s a bit of a stretch. He told me once that I provided him plenty of material with the stories I told him, that I could have co-authored something or other; pretty sure he was joking,” the demon answered, setting down his glass.

“At most I just kept the man alive with some slipped cash now and then; he was certainly creating some interesting and dark stuff, and I figured Downstairs would have wanted to keep that going. But yes, I suppose I did have some long talks with him.”

_Crowley poured himself another glass, the wine loosening both his tongue and his heart. “And I tell you, Edgar, the way I loved her – “_

_He swallowed down the lump that suddenly grew in his throat. “It was more than love. I would fly to any corner of the world at her slightest wish, make the impossible a reality in her soft white hands. I do not believe in God, Edgar, nor in Satan – you know this well – and perhaps it is because I hold no faith to spare; all of it is for my beloved, more than I ever had for the Almighty, or to Heaven or to Hell.”_

****

**_And this was the reason that, long ago  
In this kingdom by the sea,  
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling  
My beautiful Annabel Lee;  
So that her highborn kinsmen came  
And bore her away from me,  
To shut her up in a sepulchre  
In this kingdom by the sea._ **

Aziraphale ran a finger down the table of contents. “So I suppose he is with your side, then? I don’t think Gabriel and the others would have liked a lot of the things he wrote,” the angel commented. Crowley laughed at that. “Yeah, pretty sure Edgar’s one of ours. I doubt your boss would have liked ‘The Angel of the Odd’, though _that_ is a title I’d love to give him.”

A small amused smile crossed Aziraphale’s face. “I do wonder if Edgar Allan Poe include you in some of these works. Wouldn’t that be interesting, dear? I know you don’t care to read, but it would be quite a fine thing, to have a reminder of how he fondly he kept your acquaintance,” Aziraphale said, turning the page and selecting a story at random. He began to read out loud.

Crowley remained silent, letting the angel’s voice wash over him. It was far more comforting than the other memories playing in his mind.

_“You say you loved her, like it was all in the past,” Edgar whispered. “What happened? Is she no more?” Crowley gripped his glass a bit more tightly._

_“I cannot be with her, now. Then again, I was never meant to be with her, and the world made sure of that. My superiors keep ever a tighter hold on me; her kinsmen have sent her on a mission that is far away, and all of Heaven’s angels go with her. They protect her jealously – and why would they not, for such a treasure she is – and fiercely. I rescued her last in France, some years ago, and yet still she was borne away. I have not heard from her since.” Crowley answered, closing his eyes. In his mind he recalled again the angel swathed in gold embroidery and white satin, in the middle of a shadowed prison cell, almost glowing with heavenly grace. Beautiful._

_(He may have said that last word out loud, but it was wrapped in a breath of despair.)_

****

**_The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,  
Went coveting her and me –  
Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,  
In this kingdom by the sea)  
That the wind came out of the cloud by night  
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee._ **

“He seemed a rather unhappy man through much of his life,” Aziraphale mused, having just finished reading through ‘The Masque of the Red Death’, and pausing to drink from his glass.

“Yeah, funny how that kind of doom and gloom ended up creating that book in your lap, hmm? And don’t look at me; I’m pretty sure it was all on him and his imagination; I’m hardly inspirational for anything beyond a penny-dreadful about a demon summoning, or whatever,” Crowley replied, a touch sarcastically. Aziraphale said nothing and merely turned the page, but Crowley saw his fingers caress the paper of the book with a bit more care, almost sympathetically.

Crowley took off his sunglasses and pressed one hand to his eyes, the other closing into a cold fist. He could feel the whiskey burning stronger in his blood, and he could remember all too clearly now, how his conversation with the writer had gone.

_Edgar turned to the next page on his tablet. Crowley was mildly surprised to find several stanzas already covering the first page, in a flighty scrawl that characterized the writer’s fevered hand. “You have been holding out on me, Master Crowley,” Edgar said, sighing softly. “I had spoken with you often of death, of despair, of mourning; perhaps I should have conversed with you more oft on the subject of love, too. It partners so closely with the darkness of the heart, and you are no exception, after all.”_

_Crowley poured the remainder of the wine into Edgar’s glass, before setting the empty bottle on the table with a dull thunk. The sound appeared to shake the writer out of his musing. “So what becomes of you now? Shall you end her story there?”_

_Crowley abruptly drained his glass. “You ought to know by now, Edgar, that I can be quite foolish,” he answered, his voice suddenly harsh, and the poet’s eyes widened. “If her story must end there, then let it end with my loving her still. She is fussy, and bothersome, and quite infuriating, honestly; and I long for her so. Heaven and Hell can send all their armies after me – I expect that they will – but I will sooner drown in the nothingness of the universe before I allow my soul to be parted from hers. Every night I dream of her: her eyes like stars and her hair like moonlight. I am no poet, Edgar, and my words are feeble; but surely you must know now, what shall become of me.”_

_(He did know. And Crowley would never speak of this, never like this, ever again.)_

****

**_But our love it was stronger by far than the love  
Of those who were older than we –  
Of many far wiser than we –  
And neither the angels in Heaven above  
Nor the demons down under the sea  
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee._ **

“Crowley, is everything all right?” Crowley opened his eyes to see Aziraphale looking at him worriedly. He exhaled slowly, and felt his hands unclench. “Yeah, angel; just remembered… something.” Aziraphale’s expression relaxed slightly, but his gaze still flitted over Crowley’s with some concern.

“Anyway, yeah, I assure you, I had nothing to do with ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’. Way too messy, that one,” Crowley said, trying to regain his casual tone, while leaning over to flip the pages of the open book on Aziraphale’s lap. “Try another one, because I’m pretty sure I was asleep anyway when Edgar published that.”

In reaching for the book, his hand brushed Aziraphale’s. The angel pulled back as though burned, and Crowley bit back a sigh.

_Breathing heavily, Crowley stole a glance at the writer across the table; Edgar had not touched his glass again, and his eyes seemed to shine with unshed tears as he crossed and uncrossed words on the writing tablet. “I have spoken too much, and the hour grows late,” Crowley murmured, filling the silence. He reached into the pocket of his coat, and pulled out an envelope with some dollars, sliding it across the table. “I thank you for the company, and entreat you to get some meat onto your bones before you add any more words to that page.” Edgar nodded in thanks, seemingly struggling to reply._

_“One last question, Master Crowley, before you take your leave,” Edgar said suddenly. “What is your beloved’s name, if I might dare to ask?”_

_“Hmm? ’Zir’phale. It’s… Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, the syllables slurring together in a mix of longing and wine. “It will not rhyme with much, not even for you, good poet, so feel free to adjust as you like. Rest well, Edgar.” He stood up and went out the door, into the cold Baltimore night. He needed to sleep this off; maybe for another decade or so, again._

_Sitting alone at the table, Edgar tried to write it out as he had heard it from his now absent guest’s lips, but found the name eluding him as tiredness slowly crept into his limbs. The untidy scrawl, crossed out twice before being blearily written by a trailing hand, read:_ Az-Ra-Phay-Le _._

_(The name would change when he began writing the poem in earnest, when in the throes of illness and despair; it was almost a small miracle that he remembered fragments of it at all.)_

Aziraphale looked up from the book once more, this time flipping to the index. “When did you last speak with him, my dear? ‘The Raven’ was published in 1845, and ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ in 1846; I think I do recall you being in America at that time..?”

“Probably not. I last spoke with Edgar in 1849… just a while before he died. If I ever inspired anything of him, it was probably then,” Crowley answered.

“Can’t quite remember anymore, angel; anyway, I better get going, hmm? It’s getting quite late.” He stood up abruptly. Aziraphale blinked in surprise at the sudden change in tone of the demon’s voice. “Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he murmured, while carefully marking a page near the end of the collection. “Mind how you go, my dear.”

“Good night, Aziraphale; thanks for the company,” Crowley replied, pulling on his sunglasses and making his way to the door of the bookshop. Aziraphale watched him go, before dropping his eyes back to the book. He turned the pages towards the end, searching for the works published in 1849.

The angel’s breath quickened as he read the last poem of Poe, skimming through the lines; a poem of longing and loss and love, lingering beyond what Heaven or Hell could perceive.

And just outside the bookshop, the demon looked up to the sky at the unfading stars, recalling a poet whose voice he would hear nevermore, but whose words gave form to the love of a serpent for a guardian; a love that dared not speak its name, but instead kept safe and eternal in the name of a maiden by the sea.

**_For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes  
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;  
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side  
Of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride.  
In her sepulchre there by the sea –  
In her tomb by the sounding sea.  
_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Dang, that was a long one. Sorry about that. I swear I did not plan out this story to turn out like this, but once I started writing, Crowley pretty much took over my keyboard and told me, "No, it actually happened like THIS."
> 
> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
